Pryce, in particular, had been unsettled by the Hauptmann's unstated intentions.
As he paced quickly through the darkening shadows that littered the alleys between the housing huts. Tommy Hart found himself thinking about the game of mouse roulette he'd seen earlier. He decided that he would no longer feel anything but sympathy for the mouse.
There were a couple of airmen standing outside the medical services hut, smoking. They parted as he approached, and one of the fliers said, 'Hey, Hart, how's it going?' as he passed.
He found Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli inside one of the small examination rooms. There was a small table, a few hard-backed chairs, and a tabletop covered with a rough white sheet. Light from a single overhead electric bulb filled the room. On a pair of wooden shelves that had been nailed to one wall there was an array of medicines sulfa drugs, aspirin, disinfectants and creams, bandages, and compresses.
The selection was modest; all the kriegies knew that getting sick or injured was dangerous in Stalag Luft Thirteen. A routine illness could easily become complicated by the lack of proper medical materials, despite the efforts of the Red Cross to keep the dispensary stocked.
The Allied prisoners believed that the Germans regularly pilfered the precious medicines for their own hard-pressed hospitals, but this was denied by the Luftwaffe commanders, who scoffed at the allegations.
The more they scoffed, the more the kriegies were convinced they were being robbed.
Fenelli looked up from behind the table as Tommy entered.
'The man of the hour,' he said, extending his hand.
'Hell, that was some show you put on this morning. You got an encore planned for Monday?'
'I'm working on it,' Tommy replied. He glanced around.
'You know, I've never been in here before…'
'You're lucky. Hart,' Fenelli said brusquely.
'I know it ain't much. Hell, best I can do is lance a boil, maybe clean out some blisters, or set a broken wrist. Other than that, well, you got trouble.' Fenelli leaned back, glanced out the window, and lit a cigarette. He gestured at the medicines.
'Don't get sick, Hart. At least not until you think Ike or Patton and a column of tanks is just down the road.' Fenelli was short, but wide-shouldered, with long, powerful arms. His curly black hair hung over his ears, and he was in need of a shave. He had an open grin, and a cocky, self-assured manner.
'I'm not planning on it,' Tommy said.
'So, you're going to be a doctor?'
'That's right. Back to med school as soon as I get my sorry butt outta here. Shouldn't have too much trouble with gross anatomy class after all the stuff I've seen since I got my greetings from Uncle Sam. I figure I've seen just about every body part from toes to guts to brains all laid out nice and special thanks to the fucking Krauts.'
'You worked in the mortuary back home…'
'I told all that stuff to your buddy, Renaday. All true. And not nearly as bad a place to work as folks'll think. One thing you can always count on: Working in a mortuary is a nice, steady job. Never a shortage of stiffs heading your way.
Anyway, as I told your Canadian buddy-shit, I wouldn't want to get in a fight with him, you see the shoulders on him?
Anyway, I told him, soon as I saw that knife wound in Trader Vic's neck, I knew what the hell had happened. Didn't have to look at it for more than one second, although I did. Took a nice long look. I seen it before and I know how it got put there, and I haven't got no trouble telling anyone who's interested.'
Tommy handed Fenelli the sketch of the neck wound that Colin Sullivan had made. The American swiftly nodded.
'Hey, Hart. This fella can draw, all right. Yeah. That's exactly what it looked like. Even the edges, man, he's got them just right.
Not sliced, like you'd think, but just frayed a bit where the knife went in, bang! and then got worked around…'
As he spoke, Fenelli mimicked the blade entering the throat. Tommy took a deep breath, imagining the last second of panic that Trader Vic must have felt as he was grasped from behind.
'So, if I call you to the stand…'
As he spoke, Fenelli handed Tommy back the sketch of the neck wound.
'Sure. No problem. Maybe piss off Clark a bit. But that man's in genuine need of pissing off. Tight-ass career army type. Screw him.'
Fenelli laughed out loud.
'Hey,' he said, grinning, 'you gonna spring this on Monday? Not bad.
Hart. Not bad at all. That old fart Clark don't have nothing going for him like this.'
'Not Monday,' Tommy replied.
'But soon enough. Think you can keep your opinions to yourself?' he asked.
'No matter what happens when Clark starts to trot out his witnesses and evidence…'
'You mean you want me not to go around shooting my mouth off and telling everybody that Vic bought it just like some low-level capo did on some real dark street corner back home? Sure. You may not learn a lot working in a funeral home in Cleveland, but you do learn how to keep your mouth shut.'
Tommy reached out and shook Fenelli's hand.
'I'll be in touch,' he said.
'Just don't go anywhere.'
The would-be doctor laughed hard.
'You're a card, Hart.'
Tommy was about to exit the door to the dispensary when Fenelli said, 'Hey, Hart, one thing. You know this guy that's sitting next to Clark?'
'Townsend, I think his name is?'
'That's the guy. You know anything about him?'
'No. I was going to head over to his hut now.'
'I know him,' Fenelli said.
'We came into this shithole same time, same transport. He was a Liberator pilot, shot down over Italy.'
'Did he have a story?'
Fenelli grinned.
'Hey, Hart, everybody's got a story, don't you know? But that ain't what I think you're gonna find interesting about Captain Walker Townsend, no sir.' Fenelli mimicked a slight southern accent as he spoke.
'You know what Captain Townsend was back in the States before landing his ass over here?'
Tommy did not say anything. Fenelli continued to smile.
'How about chief assistant district attorney in Richmond, Virginia?
That's what he was, and you can bet every damn carton of smokes you've got that's the reason Clark has him sitting in the next seat.'
Tommy breathed out slowly. This made sense to him.
'And one other cute little detail. Hart, which I remember from the two days Townsend and I spent in the same stinking cattle car while we was being shipped here. Man tells me he did all the murder prosecutions in Richmond. And the man likes to tell me that hell, he's got more men on death row in ole Virginny than he did bombing missions before he got shot down. Like that was some sort of funny kinda ironic thing and all.'
Fenelli reached into his shirt pocket, removing another cigarette, which he lit, blowing rings of smoke into the air.
'Just thought you might like to know who you're really up against.
